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  • Just off the Alameda shoreline, a small sailboat dashed the rocks and sank. Nobody knows who owns it nor who was onboard when she went down; her registration numbers were sanded off and her passengers deserted. She’s a free agent, tall and slender in the full-moon light.

    “Watch out for the lines coming off the mast,” our guide said. Ben. I clipped them with my paddle anyway, felt the kayak shiver as we scraped around the wreck. “It’s easy to get tangled up in the dark.”

    We slid through the channel, crowding our boats together to toast and celebrate another moon, another cycle. The ferry approached, kicking a big wake off her bow. Ripples turned into waves that slapped the rocks onshore; the sunken mast swayed. Our guides circled us more tightly together, extended their paddles for us to grasp.

    “Everyone hold on to each other.”
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